My mother was going very gingerly in the dark along the paſſage which led to the parlour, as my uncle Toby pronounced the word wife.

A great multitude […] stood before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, and palmes in their hands.

There are a few nonpotato appetizers and salads if you are feeling starched out.

That shriek, and Noyes’s still-unbroken snore, are the last sounds I ever heard in that morbidity-choked farmhouse beneath the black-wooded crest of haunted mountain—that focus of transcosmic horror amidst the lonely green hills and curse-muttering brooks of a spectral rustic land.